Chains
by Sivven
Summary: Can rage raise the dead?  AU


Characters are the property of Blizzard Entertainment.

Chains

She walked the periphery of the chamber, deep in shadow. Her eyes, burning garnets in the dimness, were fixed upon the naked man confined to the obsidian slab. Long, ashen hair, spilling in wintry tendrils, to lightly brush the floor, spiraled lazily in a chill draft; it was the only part of him that moved. He glowed, pale, upon the black wedge of stone—as a graven image. And so he was. This god of death.

_ Her_ _coveted_ _prisoner_.

_ Wonderful..._she thought...to see her hate move as chains upon his entranced body.

Knowing death would bring him here—to her—was the very pinnacle of what little pleasure remained to her. She, who had been deprived of joy, of peace, of _life_—by _him_. Now, that tide had turned. Now, it had come to crest and break upon _her_ virulent shores.

_Finally, _retribution was hers.

A smile curled her cold lips—lips that had once been warm and soft, that had once been capable of gentle smiles, of loving words, and tender caresses. There had been a time, now long lost, when she had been filled with hope and promise; life had been her treasure. Stolen from her by a fiend. The very one, now helpless in her hands—_her most unkind hands._

Rage and vengeance had brought her to this end. The magic she had raised for this one purpose had been daunting, but she cared nothing for its dangers, its forbidding potential, the _reward_ compelled action—and it was hers. _He was hers._

He had almost escaped her, in those first, blinding moments; but she had prevailed, at the very last, shaping well, the deadly currents of the knowledges she had invoked to serve her. She would take her time with him; and because of _him_, she had all the time in the world. There would be no swift passage for _this_ prize. _No_. His succumbing to her will would be agonizing—as hers had been; it would be an _eternity_ of loss for him. She would have _him_ to know fear...

And Rage would _smile_, her redeemer.

She had seen his fall, his ruin—the great sword in shattered pieces all about him. Even as he suffered it, he had not bowed to the might of the Light; he had not yielded. To his last, defiant breath, he had fought, unrelenting, to reclaim what he had lost. And it had availed him _not at all._

Watching death take him down had been _beautiful_.

Oh, and how they had reveled in their triumph, his vanquishers—standing over him, gazing down in oblivious joy upon their broken nemesis.

They were _fools_, believing they had destroyed _him_.

Should this one find the passageway back, and walk it to reclamation, their new king—sleeping upon his stolen throne—would tumble faster than his flesh had burned in the dragon wind that had consumed his life.

But there would be no return for this dispossessed and hated king. Now—truly, fully undead—he was in _her_ realm. The very kingdom he had given her. He had, in his malice, bequeathed to her, his own annihilation. _That_ gift of his, she would gladly receive. And shape of it, a grave reprisal. Even _he_, this monster—this _ferocity_—could still be taught _one_ lesson in savage cruelty.

_Hers._

She would give to him the very thing he had bestowed—mercilessness. All she knew—_all she had become_—was her hatred of _him_. And she would tutor him in the burden of it—_most indulgently. _

In every way that it could be done, she would see him suffer.

She anticipated his recognition, his full awareness of her intentions; but even that perfect moment could wait. For now, she would revel in his powerlessness, but most of all, and very soon, in his _pain_.

She wondered how _he_ would like it.

_ He was cold..._

_ He, the veritable Lord of Cold...!_

More, there was _pain_. Brutal, wrecking pain; it engulfed him—shocked and forced him—as if unforgiving of all the many times it had wanted him at its mercy, but could not seize him. _Goaded to frenzy by the restless shades of his uncounted victims?_ He scowled; well, it could _eat_ _him_ _alive_—he would not bend to it, nor any other. He grunted, made furious by the pain; he struggled anew, as much against its tormenting grip as the confinement that compelled him to endure it.

Perhaps it was an invention of the pain, these strange images that now came to harry him. Ghostly, dream-like, they similarly haunted him, but with the unmistakable weight of memory.

The fierce, radiant light had filled the world...the figure, rising from within its searing glow, stepping out from an intense center of pure, perfected power. The howling mob of voices, screaming in fear, in agony, and then...in exultation. As if at a worthy conclusion. He could make no sense of these matters; and yet, they pursued him, as if they owned him.

When he had awakened earlier, the return to consciousness had been arduous. Moving to rise, he had found he could not; he was..._bound_.

_What is this? _He had wondered. Who would _dare_...to confine _me_...?

_Impossible! _He would have shouted the word, in his rage, but he found he could not speak. Flexing his hands, clenching them into fists, he had turned all his great strength against whatever this restraint was that held him so effortlessly.

How had _he_ come to _this_...?

Twisting his long, powerful body, writhing, without effect, he panted—not from exertion, but from the fury that had erupted in him. And there was no wrath comparable to his.

Whoever was responsible for this offense...oh, there would be _no_ punishment like that which he would visit upon the one insane enough to try and compel _him_ by force. There was _no_ power greater than what he commanded! _He alone!_

Logic offered for his consideration, the unsatisfying reality of his present situation; it rather succinctly denied his claims.

Finally, he had calmed, the anger leaving him, dismissed as useless; and he reflected upon the problem. These bonds were magical, he knew...but what arcane force was greater than his own? He could not speak—he could not utter a single word—his only recourse, the animal sounds of anger, pain and frustration. Therefore, he could voice no reversal of this enchantment.

_It was no stranger, _he realized, _who had leveled this hurt against him._

Quieting his mind, he reached out with his thoughts, seeking. There was nothing but a ringing emptiness in the tenuous, deep spaces, where thoughts lived to be commanded. All awareness was gone. The powerful grip that he had possessed and wielded so masterfully no longer served him.

_Am I dead...? _He wondered now, more curious than concerned. Had some strike come, taking him so unprepared that he had been cast out without even being conscious of it? Well, if it were so, he still had a body, and one perfectly willing to do his bidding; it certainly felt like his own, as it fought with familiar relentlessness against the restraints that held him.

_Impossible!_

_ Apparently,_ he reminded himself, _nothing_ _is_ _impossible_. For here he was, trapped, by some unknown force, and where he was—he knew not. He struggled in his spectral shackles once more, hopelessly caught, his most exacting efforts ineffectual.

A silent, intolerant laugh shook him. Occasionally, the humor that had once been his, resurrected briefly to amuse itself at his expense. He sighed; this, clearly, was one of those times. When his own ghost came to rattle its chains in his head. He shrugged. No reason to entertain the miserable thing any more than necessary over this misadventure.

He mused. It was simply a matter of waiting, he decided. Soon enough, his jailor would come to gloat, and he would know more. In his barely recalled, previous life, he had been reckless, not inclined to forbearance, but that had changed. Even as he had changed. Now, he had the patience of a glacier; and in it, through it, he could outwait anything.

He smiled, and a chilling, humorless light began to glow in his pale eyes. Had someone—anyone—been present to see it, and had the rage that brought this insane action to completion, allowed it to be recognized for what it was, there might have been a moment of salvation from the imminent conclusion that was, even now, poised to rise. Perhaps he would have been released, while it was still possible, and given back to the death that lingered, desiring, but now powerless to take him.

And in that one, flexible moment, the subtlety of deliverance quickened and died, its passage unremarked.

In the impenetrable darkness, there came a vague suggestion of light. He thought it was delirium, another ruthless hand of the interminable pain that gripped him. An arresting flicker of lithe motion tempted at the very fringe of sight, and he turned his head in its direction.

A brazier bloomed a tongue of flame, and she stepped out of the dark—a shadow, herself—moving quickly to leaning close over him, greedy for his recognition. His eyes squinted in the low light, glimmering beneath their icy-white lashes. The luminous, silvery irises, long stripped of native, living color, sparkled as the precious jewels they resembled. Yes, but no matter its beauty—stone was stone, cold and remorseless.

The magical fire had burned out there, the power torn from him. That force he had accepted and utilized with such consummate, crushing skill was gone forever. But still, the ice remained; it had always lived in him, she believed. Even in life, this capacity had waited, patient, to reveal itself. Why else had he been chosen? The power that had taken him for its own had not sought weakness to overwhelm...no, it had sought..._itself_...to magnify.

Her fingertips grazed the powerful contours of his chest and shoulders, their nails biting deep into the beautiful, hated flesh. The pale eyes focused bright malice upon her. He moved to raise his head, but she closed her fingers upon his strong, supple throat, pressing him back into compliance. He growled, yet had no choice but to obey, and that too, served her well—to see him bend to her will. His eyes returned to hers, seeking; the ghostly-pale brows furrowed.

He gave her a vicious, glittering smile; oh, _that_ was familiar. His lips moved to shape a word..._You_...and bliss was hers, at last. She tilted back her head, laughing softly. Ah, the joy of the undead...it was a sweet poison, all too fleeting.

She tightened her fingers upon him, until he grunted, but he made no move to resist her. No frown, no grimace marred his perfectly composed face. The monster watched—insolent and laughing. His mouth moved, as if to speak, but she would not allow it,despite how she hungered to give his angry futility a voice; but even in this place, apart, his words carried lethal resonance. The power remained, latent; it could not die. It only waited, coiled beneath oppression, working against its confinement. Moving, she sensed, towards a dark and potent purpose.

But she would still risk its price. _For this..._

His long, feathery lashes cast delicate shadows across a face made flawless by death and the lingering remnants of a once unspeakable power. His lips curled in a wicked smile, ferocious eyes sliding to study her, amused and hostile.

_She hated him! _ How _dare_ he laugh...? How dare he _scorn_ her? Why did he not grovel and silently beg for her mercy? Why did he not weep blighted, frozen tears...? Cursing, she turned away into the darkness.

_Even now..._she thought..._he still robs me of what is mine...!_

_Time_...

How long had he been here? _Forever...? _Trapped in this deep well, the prison she had shaped for him, alone. _Such an enthusiastic undertaking,_ he thought, _for one, soulless_ _thing's eternal perdition..._

Time had no meaning here, he had found; it had no purpose. In this bent space, between life and death, there were no mechanisms of passage. All such principles were torn to chaos by the towering forces that ruled this place. It was an impressive web she had woven here to hold him fast.

All that lived here was emptiness and pain.

And _power_.

It was the one thing that was _not_ meaningless.

Hearing the light, swift brush of footsteps, he knew she had returned. She was watching him, he supposed—glowering in her shadows. He could feel her raging presence; fury presaged her, as a column of strangling smoke.

When she touched him, he opened his eyes, looking up at her, knowing well the meaning of that painfully attentive caress. He steeled himself to resist, but when it came—in force—the pain could not be defied, only endured. She murmured cold pleasure, as his back arched, limber body writhing; one short, hurting gasp—escaping his resolve to deny her—was the only sign of his extremity. His jaw clenched...not even a groan could she wrest from his resistant throat.

Not enough. Not nearly enough to satisfy her requirements of him. Her fingers tightened on his flesh again, and she leaned close, her nose nearly touching his, as she gazed into his narrowed eyes, seeking more. Incensed, she stroked his cold, smooth skin, feeling him tense with rage, beneath her questing hand; she pressed the firm, tempting flesh.

_Oh, she would tear it from its bones!_

He tossed his head, restless with fury. The long, glowing hair shimmered; it might have been a blanket of frost, for its texture and its chill. Strong, elegant hands, rough with the disciplined flesh of sword-made calluses, flexed murderously, his eyes glittering with some deeper, less definable entity than what the mindless pain had given him. The dangerous, powerful body twisted, seeking any release from her touch.

Stroking the smooth prominence of his cheekbone, she moved her fingers along the arch of one white brow. With her curved, pointed nails, she teased the thick ruff of his snowy lashes, smiling as he recoiled, baring his sharp teeth to her. A testament to the one thing they shared—_rage_.

She sought the perfect point of the pain, finding it. Tensing, as soft, biting agony suffused him, he raised his head, lunging at her, his lips curling back from glistening, gnashing teeth, a snarling rictus of fury. They closed with a ringing snap, bare inches from her intrusive face, and the long, pale mane, rippling with this savage action, caught strange reflections from the flaming brazier. It cast there, a ghostly, almost golden light, an amber blush, amid the frosty white. She leaned nearer, shoving him back into the quelling glamour of his chains, as her fingers explored the illusionary glow. It ceased with her touch, this apparition of a lost design—and she drew back, frowning. She looked at his now-averted face, the sharp, fine symmetry of his features, the brooding, furious eyes, glowing half-moons, beneath the long, lowered lashes. There was a flash of palest color, momentary, but briefly real. The silver-green of dying leaves, languishing in the embrace of a killing frost. It danced there, fleeting, upon the icy whiteness, and then faded to nothing. Winding her fingers into his hair, she twisted them into a brutal grip; smiling, she pulled his resistant head around, turning his face toward her. They exchanged a long glance; and the silent promise he gave her then, was the coldest even _he_ had ever made.

_ Time..._

He had no grasp of the time that had passed, since he last felt her touch. He seemed to hang, suspended, in a resonating web, dismissed by the spider, or perhaps, simply forgotten. He laughed idly to himself. _Unlikely_.

Inured, now, to its incessantly painful caress, he had begun teasing the magic that enclosed him, making it whisper its secrets to him. When it grew wary and silent, he would entice it, seducing it to revelation. He picked it apart, a mazy knot to amuse him for eternity. Just a long string of precisely braided words...everything that existed was just strings, he knew, desperate threads, stretched tight across the Void, to obscure it.

Another soundless laugh. He _wanted_ to see the face of the Abyss; and he wanted _it_ to see _him_...as he would, ultimately, be _its_ master...

She felt such pleasure at his rage; she had watched it rise, rearing its horrific head, growing ever stronger, and brought to fulfillment by the pain, by the hated chains, this massive, dark wrath of his. Uneasy, she remembered well, its dominion—its weight upon the soul.

_ How terrifying it had been...and somehow...still remained..._

Yet, it had subtly changed; was it—impossibly-even colder...?

The pale eyes shifted slightly to study her. There was a smoldering hint of something lost, distantly familiar... She frowned, but it dissipated almost instantly. Imaginary ghost of harrowing memory, she thought, bending over him, studying the arrogant face, so close to hers. The eyes did not waver; he smiled faintly, taunting. As he had _always_ mocked her, hateful and overpowering...

The derisive smile widened, and he laughed soundlessly at her anger, knowing well, its source. He shrugged, contemptuous, and glanced away. She pressed her thumb to the soft, full curve of his lower lip, and his eyes came back to hers. She bent to kiss him—icy lips, both, icy, panted breaths between them—taking his cold mouth, with hurting force, almost a blow, as if to eat him—so angry, she did not care if he closed those threatening teeth on her. He did not. To her fury, he returned it in kind, with mirroring violence, raising his head in response, as if aroused by the rage in her savage caress.

Of course it fueled him—he _was_ rage. And he was laughing, in his enforced silence; she could see it shimmering there, the stony disdain that had given her this murderous fury.

He had _created_ her..._he_ was _responsible_ for the atrocity she had become...

_ I want to hear him scream..._she thought.

She wanted to hear him cry out—_forsaken._

_ The power. _How closely it held him now—in its cold, cradling embrace, greedy to unravel him. He could feel it investigating him, biting, with its needle teeth. It had become enthralled with his implacability. _And_ _his_ _was_ _legend_. As this spiraling, hungry snare was soon to discover. He had offered nothing of himself, only waiting; and when it came to him, at last—_as he had known it would_—he took what was _his_.

_She_ had come to him, as well. He smiled.

_Now_, he would clarify, with finality, the _true_ meaning of _hunger_.

_And revenge._

_ He was rising..._

_ No...!_

He was standing, shaking off the magical chains that had held him for so long. She had once believed she might hold him forever—but the binding spell had fallen to him...and he had torn the life from it...

He laughed softly, and it had a _voice_, a deadly vibration, moving, transforming the heavy air between them, chilling it into an unbearable grip, that chained _her_...

The beautiful, terrible body pivoted slowly; the glowing, frost mantle of his hair shivered with his movements—flowing, to conceal and then, reveal the cold, stone angles and planes of him, caressing his shoulders, his skin of ice, chest and hard belly.

He turned to face her, fully aware of her hidden presence. She had never been able to hide from _him_...

He smiled and opened his eyes. And there it was—the promise he had made to her in his silence. She staggered back, turning to run; but there was no sanctuary from this most ruinous of consequences.

He is..._more_ now, she realized..._so much more, than even before..._and by her own unwitting design. How had she been so blind as to expose such an _avaricious_ power to _him_...? Of course, it had wanted him, but _he_ had been the taker. That was what he _was_..._a ravager..._

There would be no resisting him now; he would not be stopped again. He had the will—he had _always_ had the will—and now, again, he would have the power...and _more_...

She felt it in motion all around them, rising up, clamoring to exalt and perfect him. Eager to..._serve_...

She froze, as if seized in his devastating grasp; had she been encased in ice, she could not have been more immobilized. And then, she heard the soft padding of his bare feet, crossing the space between them.

_The sound of a lover's approach._..she thought. _Her death knell. _

His cold hand touched her, fingertips caressing her spine, lingering and provocative. Powerful arms slipped around her waist, drawing her back into the familiar, vengeful embrace. He bent his head, his hair sweeping down to enfold her; and she was shrouded in his silk.

_No!_ She pled emptily; Deity turned a deaf ear. _Not again! _

There was no hell fiercer than this savage thing—now leaning close, in its malice.

"You should have just gloated, as the others did..." he murmured softly. "You should have _let me go. _But no, _you_ had to have _more_...you were always too hungry...for _more_..." He bent over her, a titan's shadow, nestling his face into the angle of her neck and shoulder; he pressed soft, cold lips to her ear. _"Petulant, little elf..." _ He whispered. "One would think you were my _only_ victim...but you _will_ be the first to be reborn _now_...for _me_..."

She groaned from the chill brush of his breath, sensing the curve of a smile in that mouth where it touched her. The odor of the grave was gone from him—as if he had been burned clean, _refined_. Now, there was the cold smell of lightning about him.

"Say it..._Dark Lady..._" he sighed, so softly, nuzzling behind her ear. She shivered, as the ice fire of him danced its apparitional smoke upon her pale, trembling skin. He pressed a gentle, taunting kiss to her neck. _"Say it..."_

_ She would not...would not..._

_ "Never...!" _ She gasped. "Never again..."

_I will die first...!_

He laughed softly...oh, that _hated_ laugh!

_Die? You will never die..._he promised, slowly drawing her back into the terrible aura of his inescapable power. She shivered in helpless terror; even her healing hate could not preserve her.

It was not _hers..._she now knew...it was _his_...it had always been _his_.

_He had been with her from the very beginning, since that first, hungry thrust of his sword..._laired up in her mind, feeding and being fed—_by the rage_. How had she not recognized it? The very thing that destroyed her, had then _become_ her...

_She had never been free of him._

His fingers lightly tapped her chin, and she turned her head, unwilling, but incapable of resistance. His nose brushed hers, as if he might tenderly kiss her, and she gazed—knowing and hopeless—into lambent, moonstone eyes, into the fire that had consumed him so long ago.

And in the same manner, did _he_ now violate _her,_ taking all the hate he had given her, growing more powerful, even as she weakened, as her hate betrayed and abandoned her, drawn away to the ferocious magnetism of _his_ unending wrath.

_It never dies..._she thought dimly. _Never_. And so, _he_ will never die...

It had just been waiting, she suddenly knew. Waiting, for _access_. A conduit..._me_...my hate was its _beacon_ in the darkness...my own imbalance summoned it...

_The rage._

His mind sank into hers, like teeth.

_Rage is a devourer. It must feed. And it grows, always, it grows. Did you really believe yours was greater than mine, when it is all I am...?_

"Say it..." he murmured softly, as he took everything from her, once again. He left her with nothing. She was hollow in his reshaping hands, waiting to be filled by his will. "Say it, _now..."_

_ "Master..." _she whispered, as she fell.

He walked out into the lurid, bloody glow of an exhausted sun, gazing out upon time's work—and the high price of immortality. _His_ now, this stranger kingdom.

He laughed softly.

The sun was dying, falling from the sky, into a frozen, tideless sea, unrecognizable as life's source, for countless millennia. He turned, as Cold came to embrace him, brutal and welcoming.

Instinctively, he faced north. Yes, he could hear it..._the voice of the ice. _He had once promised it the world, and now, his claim would see fruition. Lifelessness flew away from him in every direction; nothing stirred, no wind, no creature. It was colder than anything even he had ever imagined, and he sighed, opening his arms to be imbued by it.

He had no warmth to steal away, but he moved, he glowed; he had his own, terrible light, and Night came to snuff it out, only to find there, an even greater darkness than its own.

_ "Mine..." _ he whispered, and it, too, leaned into his irresistible authority, acknowledging him as the one, so long awaited. The one who would eclipse the fading, failing Light.

He glanced at his sole companion. _Such_ _tenacity_, he thought; perhaps her rage _did, _ in fact, rival his own. And if so, what a fitting conclusion for her. Where else did she belong, but at _his_ side...?

Her downcast eyes, weeping frozen tears of blood, burned red as the collapsing sun. Soon enough, he thought, they—like it—would blink out, and there would be nothing but _his_ light in a titanic darkness of ghosts and howling silence. She would not need eyes in the coming, forever black. She needed nothing, but to _serve_ _him_...

He waited, while she armored him—smooth, jetty metal, long lost, almost forgotten, this piece of the eternal night. This black ice of endings. He took the helm in his hands, watching the sun struggle and slowly suicide in the uncaring sea.

_I can outwait you..._he thought. _I already have._

He placed the helmet upon his frost-white head, turning his glowing eyes to survey what was his. This dead and silent world.

He smiled. _"Perfect..." _he said.


End file.
